


Dear Jensen (letters from the front)

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, blahblahblahblah, passing mentions of PTSD and thoughts on war, unrealistic portrayal of WW2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer before the end of World War 2, Jared's sitting in a foxhole in Northern France, writing letters to his boyfriend back home in Texas. He just can't quite manage to send them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Jensen (letters from the front)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written last minute style for my July entry to [](http://smpc.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://smpc.livejournal.com/)**smpc**. It's been awhile and I feel a bit rusty, so bear with me here...

_Dear Jensen_ , Jared starts off with. The words flow in cursive loops from his ballpoint pen, black ink seeping into the parchment paper.

Off to his right a bomb explodes, not exceptionally close to the foxhole that Jared’s lying in, but near enough that it the _n_ on Jensen’s name gets smudged. Despite the pieces of torn cotton fabric Jared stuck in his ears they starting ringing, and he shakes his head, trying to get the high pitched noise to stop.

He knows it’s pointless though. He’s heard men say that it’s a _relief_ when they go deaf.

At least the ringing stops.

Jared wonders if death is like that too. If it’s relief, after waking up day after day in a foreign country, wondering if your luck is going to run out. If today’s going to be your last.

It’s almost sunrise, somewhere in Northern France, and the fighting’s just about to start.

Jared remembers a time when dawn was hopeful. Full of entwined legs, hot coffee, and the promise of a new day. A better day.

But those days had Jensen, who got stuck back at home, unable to fly due to his poor vision, unable to fight because Jared had made sure he couldn’t.

A limp from a slammed car door is better than Jensen being here. Because Jared can die, he’ll gladly do so for his country. But he can’t spare Jensen, and neither can the United States.

No, Jensen’s back home in Texas, studying to be the next great airplane mechanic. He thinks he can design a plane fast enough to break the sound barrier, and Jared knows he will. Just not out here on the front, Winchester Trench Gun in one hand, grenade in the other. That’s for grunts like him. Not for intellectuals like Jensen.

Jared puts his back against the mud wall and covers his ears this time as the next explosion hits, shaking the ground around him, leaving an oily, tarlike smell mixed with burning flesh lingering in his nose. It’s a scent that Jared’s gotten far too used to, recently. It’s one he wishes he didn’t know.

It’s silent, after a while, ringing in his ears excluded, and Jared steals these precious minutes to pull out his letter. He hasn’t sent one yet, and he knows that Jensen’s probably worrying back at home. Walking back and forth to the mailbox in 100 degree heat hoping the mailman simply messed up the address and forgot to deliver an overseas envelope.

Jared bites down his nails until there’s no white showing, trying to figure out what to say. How to explain that what he’s doing doesn’t feel heroic. It feels scary, and filthy, and that he prays more now than he ever did back at home. So much that even his Sunday-school teacher would probably be proud.

And he misses Jensen more than he can describe in words. He misses the heat of Jensen’s hand, slung casually over his ribcage, the press of Jensen’s lips against the back of his neck, and the feel of Jensen’s fingers, their hands locked together.

Maybe that’s not so bad, he tells himself. He bets that Jensen will blush, all the way from the roots of red-brown hair to his groin when he reads it.

He starts over, tracing the words from before.

 _Dear Jensen,_ he begins again.

 _I miss you. I’m sorry to keep you waiting on news from the front, but the truth is, there’s not much to say. It sucks. A lot. The food sucks, the weather sucks, and being shot at_ really sucks. _I do, however, wish that I was sucking you. That kind of sucking is great._

_And it makes me think of you and your ridiculously perfect mouth. Oh. Right. Have I mentioned that I miss you?_

_Remember when we first met—you were crossing the quad and I accidentally threw a football into you, knocking the glasses from your face, giving you that adorable bump on your nose? You know. The one I like to kiss._

_Well, confession (because if you can’t confess when you might be about to die, when can you?): I threw it at you because I thought you were hot, and it seemed like a good excuse to talk to you. I mean, you were a gorgeous senior, you seemed so filled out, your voice already so deep, and me? I was a scrawny sophomore. Sure, I was the running back on the football team, but you could have cared less._

_In any case. I’m really glad I did, although I’m sorry about ruining your perfect nose (not really, because now there’s a piece of you that will always belong to me)._

_Sometimes I’m selfish enough to wish that you were here with me, down in this foxhole. That somehow your presence would make everything alright. That I’d feel the beat of your heart and know that everything was right in the world because you were here too. You and me together, against the world._

_What can I say, I guess when push comes to shove, I’m a sentimentalist. Who would have guessed?_

_(I’m also horny as fuck, and while you said you’d understand if my gaze wandered during my service, I have to say, none of these boys holds a candle to you. I’d rather have my right hand and the memory of pushing into you for the first time, all hot and sweaty in the summer heat, not a care in the world except for hoping that I would fit inside, and that you’d let me hold your hand afterwards.)_

_In any case. I’m fine. Well, as fine as I can be. Just missing you something fierce today._

_Hope you’re well._

_Jared_

\--  
By the time he’s done writing the letter, he’s hard in his dull-green, army issue pants. The bombing has gotten closer, vibrating the ground, impulses traveling up Jared’s legs and directly to his crotch. Instead of slipping his hand inside, he bringing his cock out, and lets it breathe as it remembers the feel of Jensen around it. Squeezing him, better lubed than Jared’s gun-oil and spit soaked hand.

When he comes, gasping loudly, practically moaning Jensen’s name, no one can hear him over the sound of gunfire, erupting nearby.

His come soaks in to the letter he wrote, smearing the fresh ink, making his writing near illegible.

Jared doesn’t send the letter.

\--

He tries again about 2 weeks later while eating breakfast—oatmeal with peanut butter. Breakfast of champions. The war is coming to an end, or so the word is. Germany’s forces are too divided, being sapped up by the Russian front, and since the bombings of Osaka in Japan, they’re getting more confident by the week.

It still doesn’t mean that Jared’s going to come back.

He wonders if Jensen stops by at his parents, asking if they’ve heard news. Wanting to know why he hasn’t written. He wonders if Jensen’s found someone else, four months in and no word from the front. The thought nearly makes him want to walk into enemy fire and lay down his arms.

He resolves to write another letter. And to send it, this time.

 _Dear Jensen_ , (the way he starts off is always the same, only the content varies slightly. Different memories for different days)

_I’m sorry that none of the letters that I’ve written to you have been sent. But in the case that I die, they will all be delivered posthumously. I hope that will be enough. You’ll see that I cared. That I thought about you every hour of every day._

_I’ve eaten peanut butter for the last week or so here, and I have to say—I might never want to lick it off your body again. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d lick anything off your body._

_I miss the salty taste of you on my tongue, and the weight of your dick, hot with blood in my mouth._

_I have to say, I’ll never forget when you sank to your knees in the locker room after all the other boys had left, tasting the rosiest parts of my body. Licking like it was your life, and not mine that depended on it. Although I’d just had adrenaline running through my veins from our game with Ft. Worth, it was nothing compared to how fast my heart was beating when you pressed your lips together and kissed the glossy tip of my dick._

_As you looked up at me, half-worried that I might beat your ass to next Sunday for daring to commit such an act between men (boys, really. We were boys, weren’t we?), I knew that you were the only one for me._

_Sometimes, out here, it gets noisy in my head. I think I’m getting ‘shell-shocked’. That’s what they call it when you see too many of your friends die, and twitch a little too easily at any loud sound. I’m worried I’m going to bring it back to you—to us. But I also hope that being back in your arms will calm the horror._

_That you’ll make me see the beauty in being human again. That you’ll still love me, even though I’ve killed men—men who have families. Who are husbands, brothers, uncles, and fathers. Those whom I’ve condemned to never return to their homes._

_Some part of me wants to vomit when I think of you taking me back into your bed, spreading your legs easily, warm and already ready for me, not knowing that I’ve murdered. The other half hopes that everything I’ve done will be forgiven when I sink into you. That we can love in the same way we did before, and somehow this will be nothing more than a bad memory. The worst of which, was not having you by my side._

_I hope every day when I wake up in the morning, that the news will come that the war is over, and that I’ll be sent home. Back to the hot Texas heat, to thunderstorms in the late afternoons where we bake chocolate thunder-cake together, and get into fights in our kitchen with flour. Or tomatoes._

_I pray to God every day that I’ll see you soon._

_Love,_

_Jared_

__  
That letter Jared does send.

\--

Of course, it’s Jared’s luck that the letter arrives 3 weeks after he makes it home, back to a room in his mother’s house, because Jensen’s pissed that he hadn’t written. That he’d made Jensen worry for months while he was alive.

Jared had tried to show him the (mostly come-stained and smudged) letters, but Jensen wasn’t interested. He’d needed some time to himself, he’d said. Needed to figure out what really mattered.

There are three-stooges re-runs on T.V. and Jared’s watching pointlessly while shoveling cherry-pie and beer into his mouth, because he hasn’t even looked for a job since coming home. He hasn’t shaved either, because what’s the point without Jensen?

There’s a knock on the door, but Jared doesn’t answer it. It’s not for him anyways, and it’s Sunday morning--his parents are at church.

He flinches though, with every rap against the door, until finally he walks over and opens it.

“Jared?”

Apparently he’s hardly recognizable. Even to Jensen.

“What do you want?” he asks, somewhat resigned but mostly half-drunk and unable to have a full conversation at this point.

“Jeez, Jared. You look awful.”

“You look…good,” he states, because honestly, Jensen could wear ripped jeans and a faded tee-shirt and still look handsome.

“I got your letter,” Jensen says finally, after he’s stared his fill, “Let’s get you upstairs to the shower before we talk about it though.”

Jared can smell himself, now that he’s bothered to notice, so he agrees.

He lets Jensen take off both of their clothes before stepping into the shower. Doesn’t put up an argument when Jensen shampoos his hair, or puts a razor to his jaw line and starts to shave.

There’s a few nicks on Jared’s neck, but Jensen put them there, and Jared can’t complain. Not when he’s got Jensen wet and naked and in the shower.

“Hey,” he says, after Jensen’s done cleaning him, and the water’s started to run cold.

“Hey,” Jensen says back, leaning forward on his tiptoes and kissing Jared on the mouth. “Any chance I can see the rest of those letters?”

“I think there’s a good chance of that,” Jared agrees easily, although he’s pinned Jensen against the slippery tile while starting to rub his cock against Jensen’s in fast, frantic thrusts, designed to get them both off—a dance that’s reserved for those who have been separated for too long, and their bodies simply _need_ one another. “But we have a little catching up to do first.”  



End file.
